Lex Talionis
by LithiumAddict
Summary: But if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise. Welcome to the Thieves Guild. Enjoy your stay.
1. Shoot the Messenger

**TITLE: **Lex Talionis

**SUMMARY: **_But if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise. _Welcome to the Thieves Guild. Enjoy your stay_._

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **None for the prologue, but that'll change.

**DISCLAIMER: **They're not my toys. Marvel's just good enough not to yell at me for playing with them.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **I'm going to be upfront with you here. "Lex Talionis" is an experiment; it's an attempt to try something a little bit different that up until now I haven't had the chance to do. I'll put it this way – the fact that this is the thirteenth story put up in this account is appropriate beyond measure. Inspired stylistically by Solitaire E's "Breathe" and content-wise by reading too much Elizabethan revenge tragedy, this is going to be a story of short, punchy chapters, heavy atmosphere, and no promises.

Still here?

Well then. Let's get started.

* * *

**Introduction: The King is Dead, Long Live the King. **

_Early mornings are the worst time to be awake and alone. There's a coldness to them that's only amplified by isolation__, leaving one feeling distant and hurt at the same time. _

_It doesn't so much leech as settle, becoming a physical weight that's only lifted by the sun as it goes along its course and the inexorable rhythm of human affairs shifts to the pattern of daytime hours once more. _

_This lift has yet to come, and a young man sits in a darkened room with only the glow of a computer screen to keep him company. He's in a chair before this screen, looking partic__ularly conflicted as he stares at the computer as though it has an answer for him. He knows, perhaps better than anyone else, that this isn't the case at all. For all his questions there is only one answer._

"_He needs to be told."_

_He harbors no delusions. He speaks truth. What's getting to him is that this is a truth he doesn't want to handle, not now. There's still so much that needs to be dealt with before he can even begin to broach this big and nameless thing that he's not so sure he wants to put words to just yet. _

_Never mind wanting, he's not even sure that he can._

_And yet he opens an internet window, logs in to an e-mail provider, and begins to type. The clicking of his fingers serves as an eerie soundtrack to the scene, and his face grows more shadowed with every key he presses. The slowly rising sun only serves to amplify this effect, and when he pauses to look at the few words he's managed to get out on the screen, he looks even more disappointed with himself._

_It's not what he'd hoped to say, but it'll do. It'll have to._

_He clicks the send button, and leans back in order to check that the cell phone in his pocket is set to loud. It is. Satisfied (or at least as satisfied as he can be, circumstances what they are right now), he turns the monitor off and crosses the room to a bed that looks to have been tossed and turned in for at least a couple nights now. It's near enough to fact._

_Lowering himself in to it, he closes his eyes. He's played the dutiful messenger boy, and has earned the right to sleep._

_At least until the phone rings anyhow._

* * *

**Part One: Shoot the Messenger**

Somewhere in New York, Remy LeBeau stands on an apartment porch dragging down hard on a cigarette between angry breaths. The languid trail of smoke that twists and turns from its burning end provide a striking contrast to the frown lines that mark his face right now. He lets out a sharp, barking cough at the cold winter air, the lines growing only more defined as his lungs settle enough for him to breathe properly again.

With the next few breaths, he berates himself for leaving his computer on overnight. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have been woken by an e-mail sent at three in the morning by a brother he hasn't seen in years. He then moves on to cursing Henri, but it's only half-hearted and dissipates along with the smoke. There's a bitterness, however, that remains a solid fixture within his mind. He'd never wanted to receive that particular e-mail. Ever.

Remy's memorized the message itself in spite of, or perhaps because of this. It's short and to the point, hardly worth considering a note, but manages a detachment that leaves a foul taste in his mouth.

_Dad's dead. You've got my number. Call me._

His brother has never been one to mince words, and even in this he's remained true to form. There's something more than a little wrong with the fact that Jean-Luc's death and all that it entails can be condensed in to something so small and seemingly innocuous, but Remy currently lacks the desire and the energy to think it through properly.

Jean-Luc is dead.

So here stands, puffing furiously at a morning cigarette (one of Jean-Luc's indulgences that he swore he'd never pick up, but there are larger things at stake here now than bad habits) in an attempt to steady himself and determine exactly how to proceed.

He settles for heading back inside and picking up the phone. A sequence of numbers he wishes he could forget gets punched in, and before there's time for second thoughts or regrets, the phone is ringing and someone has picked it up. The voice that answers is sleep-tainted and strained.

"That you, Remy?"

"Yeah."

"You got my e-mail then."

"Obviously."

Apologizing for the inappropriately clipped way he's speaking doesn't even cross Remy's mind. He's never spoken a sorry that he doesn't mean, and hardly intends to start now.

The sour rinse to that single word is obviously caught by Henri. Woken up fully now, his reply is clear and cutting in a way that Remy doesn't recognize as being like him.

"You think I want to be having this conversation? Getting in touch with you wasn't exactly my first choice either. But rules-"

Resentful and unthankful, he cuts Henri off and finishes the sentence for him.

"-are rules. I know."

"So stop sounding like I pissed in your cornflakes."

It's a poor attempt at humour that doesn't serve its purpose. The air between them is still as clouded as ever, and both of them know that it's going to take more than a joke that's more acidic in its delivery than funny to fix what's wrong with them and between them.

Henri's sigh is barely audible.

"Dad's dead," he says, and it sounds like he hardly believes it himself. Remy grits his teeth as he walks to the kitchen and starts going through the motions of putting on a pot of coffee. He can feel a headache coming on. It's probably due to caffeine withdrawal, but he would rather not give outside forces the credit for his own frustration and anger. That takes control out of his hands, and right now, he needs all the sense of control – however false – he can get.

"He hasn't been 'dad' to me since I was fifteen, Henri."

"You're still family."

"Adopted family."

"Now you're just being stupid. You know that doesn't matter."

"It mattered to him."

"Come _off _it, would you? He's dead, you know what's about to go down, and all you can do is cling to this stupid 'daddy didn't love me enough' shit? I hate to be to the one to break it to you, but life with him wasn't exactly fun for me either."

"No, you come off it," Remy bites out, slamming the start button on the coffee maker. "I walked away."

"You know that no-one ever walks away."

The truth, as it always seems to, hurts. Leave it to Henri to point out the painful and the obvious in one fell swoop.

"No, they don't. They just get carried out in coffins."

Despite the tone he employs, Remy's words speaks to him conceding. Henri is right, of course. He always is.

"You coming home then?" Henri asks, and Remy curses himself as obligation driven in to him from a childhood he's tried so desperately to escape answers for him. There's work to be done after all, and he has no real choice but to help take care of it.

"I'll be on the next flight down."

He offers no goodbye, disconnecting the call while looking to the still-brewing pot of coffee that he's not really planning to drink anymore. The phone gets dropped on the counter and he heads back for the porch and the cold winter morning air. He leans over the rail now, wondering idly how long it would take him to hit the ground were he to hurl himself over the side. He doesn't, of course. He's needed. He settles for bracing his forearms against the banister and hanging his head in a moment that manages to be a combination of quiet anguish and sour anticipation.

He's going home.


	2. Warm Welcomes

**ITLE: **Lex Talionis

**SUMMARY: **_But if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise. _Welcome to the Thieves Guild. Enjoy your stay.

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **Language, unresolved issues, familial tension.

**DISCLAIMER: **They're not my toys. Marvel's just good enough not to yell at me for playing with them.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **Many thanks to Amber and Murmurs for their kind contribution of angry music to the "Lex Talonis" cause. Thank you Lucia for her contribution of book recommendations and visual inspiration that will help bring the rest of this story together. Thank you to all the people who gave this departure from my norm a chance and reviewed the first piece. Thank you to _you _for either returning, or joining this story already in progress.

And now, with credit where credit's due, let's catch up with Remy.

* * *

**Part Two: Warm Welcomes**

It's that evening that Remy steps off a plane and in to Louis Armstrong International. He takes care not to look up or around as he heads to the exit with his left hand vice-like on the small bag he'd packed that managed to pass for carry-on. He needs little else than the change of clothes and the few other assorted things he's brought, for Henri will have everything else on hand.

The sparse collection of belongings can also be explained by the fact that he doesn't plan on staying long, but that's being hopeful at best. He'll stay until the work's completed. No more, no less. That's all there is to it. That's all there _can _be. Rules are . . . his jaw tightens and he focuses instead on being invisible and going unnoticed by the crowd.

Hailing a taxi is quick work once he's outdoors, and Remy tips the man generously for his silence over the course of the trip. He gets out of the car at the start of the driveway, turns up the collar of his trench up in some small defense against the slightest of chills to the air, and walks on.

The journey up the long, tree-lined drive is taken up mainly with the attempt and failure to glean something other than sound and fury from his mind. He goes over the same old questions yet again, ending up with the same answers and same disappointment in himself for not being strong enough to say no.

He ponders turning tail and running his ass off to the nearest gas station, stealing the most convenient car, and leaving all of this behind. Pretending this is just another bad dream would be easy. All he has to do is go.

Remy chortles darkly to himself as he steps up to the front door of the ancient manor house and raises his fist. Leaving was never an option in the first place. Leaving isn't an option for him now. Besides that, the nearest gas station is far beyond even his capacity to run to.

He bangs harder than he has to on the door, secretly relishing the tenderness it produces in his knuckles and the beginnings of faint bruises he feels there. It's opened shortly thereafter, and he finds himself face to face with a pretty blonde with bloodshot eyes.

"'Bout time you got here," she whispers, looking for all the world like a porcelain doll on the verge of breaking. Remy knows better. This porcelain doll is two months or so away from being his sister-in-law, and as such is capable of unspeakable things.

"Long time no see, Mercy."

His offering of words is awkward and misplaced. Their tone is all wrong, being far too flippant. He doesn't care.

She says nothing, stepping aside to allow him entrance. He walks in, and she closes the door before falling in to step right next to him.

"I'm glad you came," she says. "Henri needs you right now."

Remy shakes his head ruefully.

"He doesn't need me. The Guild does. It's not the same thing."

Mercy does a good job of staring him down in spite of being half a foot shorter than he is.

"It's been hell here for the past forty-eight hours, Remy. Henri's barely slept, the rest of the family's this close to going postal, and the funeral hasn't even happened yet. It doesn't matter if it's the Guild or just Henri who needs you. You're still needed."

She doesn't think he gets it, doesn't think he understands what's really going on, and it makes Remy want to laugh harder than anything has for a long time. He, if anyone, 'gets' this.

"Don't mistake me being here for wanting to be, Mercy. And don't mistake my being called down for wanting me around. This is just protocol. Just rules. I wouldn't be here otherwise."

As he says this, Mercy's eyes narrow to a laser-sharp focus. They betray her frustration and her anger. Remy almost enjoys having gotten this kind of reaction, but then she speaks and he's back to the familiar territory of self-loathing.

"If you weren't your father's son, I'd slap you for saying stupid things like that."

He wants her to do it. A stinging cheek to match his empty chest seems appropriate. Her eyes say she will, and there's a part of him that smiles at this, screams for it. He opens his mouth to encourage her –_I never was Jean-Luc's son, Mercy; go on and do it – _but is interrupted.

"That you, Remy?"

Henri's voice both saves and damns him. Mercy's eyes shift to her fiancé, thoughts of violence against Remy seemingly forgotten.

"Yeah," he says hoarsely, fluctuating between feeling thankful that his brother's here now and things can get started, and resentful because Mercy knows better than to try anything with her fiancé here. His right cheek burns anyway.

Henri stands in front of them now, dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt, his dark hair disheveled. He looks haggard and worn beyond his years, something Remy's willing to bet has only happened since Jean-Luc made his final bows and walked off the stage they all still stand on.

"You look like hell."

It's a blunt assessment. It's true. Henri ignores it, though Mercy looks ready to claw Remy's eyes out.

"Dinner's almost ready," he says, and it sounds as tired as he looks. "Everyone else is out tonight. We can talk over food."

The three of them troop in to the kitchen with a quiet sobriety, the smell of canned tomato sauce and boiling pasta filling the air. Remy sits down at a table set for two, and it's feeling just like home again – less than five minutes in the house, and he's already the outsider once more.

Henri strains the spaghetti, throws it in an oversized bowl, and dumps the sauce unceremoniously overtop it before bringing it to the table. Mercy thinks enough to grab an extra place setting, and all but throws it down in front of Remy. The food is doled out without any pretense at ceremony or gentility.

The first few minutes are silent as the grave.

"Dad's dead."

Remy finishes his mouthful and sets to pushing the noodles idly around his plate. He hadn't been particularly hungry to start, and Henri's words have stolen away whatever appetite might have remained.

"So you said. And since you had to call me in, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess that it wasn't of natural causes. And if it wasn't of natural causes, it probably had something to do with the Guilds. So why don't you spare me the lead-up and just tell me what the Rippers did this time."

Mercy slams down her glass and leaves both her half-empty plate and the kitchen.

"Nice job," Henri says sarcastically, and it's the most spirit he's exhibited thus far. "Would it kill you to show a little respect?"

Remy snorts, wondering at the answer himself. He quickly brushes aside any emotion to lay out his response coolly in a way that Henri's sure to understand.

"I'm not here by choice, Henri. You know that. This ain't love. This ain't family. This here's business, and you know damn well that I'm going to be out of here as soon as all this shit's taken care of."

Henri looks shocked, but it quickly melts in to disbelief.

"Business? Not family?" His voice takes a turn for the cold and authoritative. "Playing dumb doesn't flatter you, Remy. _You _know damn well they're the same thing here."

He's got no response to this, so he falls back on a mulish glower that he hasn't used since he was thirteen or so. Henri takes a deep breath in, and after a few more tries at eating, abandons his food as well. When he finally looks up from his plate, there's a bleak smile playing at his features.

"Storytime then, I guess."

"Just tell it, Henri."

He does.


	3. History Lesson

**TITLE: **Lex Talionis

**SUMMARY: **_But if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise. _Welcome to the Thieves Guild. Enjoy your stay.

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS:** Discussion of violence and death.

**DISCLAIMER: **They're not my toys. Marvel's just good enough not to yell at me for playing with them.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **I'm gonna be honest with you – this story is probably the most satisfying piece of writing that I've worked with in a long time. Thank you kindly to all who have shown love, interest, and a desire to see more.

* * *

**Part Three: History Lesson**

_Once upon a time, there were two warring families._

_Let us pause here to make something clear – don't be deceived by this beginning. Though these words ring of fairy tales and stories written by men long since dead, you should know that there is no fiction here. These families and their war are very real, and New Orleans has been their battleground as long as there have been feet treading upon its soil._

_So let us go back to the beginning now, aware now (or at least a little more so; it's impossible to know all where the families are concerned) of what it is we have started._

_Once upon a time, there were two warring families, and as long as _la Nouvelle-Orléans _has existed, their blood has been poured out upon its streets._

_The reason for this feuding has been long forgotten, having been lost somewhere to the ravages of time and the failing of memory. It no longer matters anyway. There is only the families, honour, and the Law._

_Perhaps an explanation is necessary. There are certainly questions that will have arisen in response to even these few words, and answers will be needed in order to proceed._

_Who are the families?_

_Were you to be told two last names, you still wouldn't fully understand. Last names don't matter since they have a habit of changing to suit the current winds of the world. The families do not. They have been, are, and will be, and there is more to them than a last name can explain or contain. Still, family names are a customary thing. Let us keep close to custom in that case; the families would approve of that. Know this then - the Patriarchs of the families currently go by the names of LeBeau and Boudreaux._

_Remember though, these two names don't matter. Whatever name that the bloodlines may go by, the families are always the Thieves and the Rippers. _

_What is honour?_

_Honour is remaining true to the families. It is putting the Family, capital F intentional, before all else. It is the binding of the self to something higher and larger than it can ever be alone. It is devotion. It is life. It is maintaining the Law with every breath drawn in and every beat of ones heart, to the point of ignoring all else. _

_What is the Law? _

_It is simple._

For every drop of Thief blood shed, equal Ripper blood must be spilt in vengeance.

For every drop of Ripper blood shed, equal Thief blood must be spilt in vengeance_._

_It's a neat and tidy system that leaves no room for interpretation. A clean little pattern of cause and effect that has been put in to practice time and time again. A corpse for a corpse. That is the way of things for the families for as far back as their collective memory can reach._

_So what does this all mean then? Ah, there's the true question, and the one that takes us away from these finer threads and spins us back in to our story._

_There are two Patriarchs of these families – currently Marius Boudreaux of the Rippers, and Jean-Luc LeBeau of the Theives. The two recently met under particularly tense circumstances to see if perhaps something like a truce could be negotiated. It had been a bad year for both of the families, they said. Too many bodies, too much death. It was time to at least try for change, if only for the sake of pragmatics. Every murder and every atonement meant less hands remaining to steal, or to kill. Such an arrangement was poor business sense for both families._

_Let us be honest though; for all the talk bandied of 'a bad year', there had never actually been a good one either. War is war, be it in trenches or in back alleys. Casualties are casualties, be they on battlefield or on city streets. Blood is blood, from Eden to New Orleans._

_For a while, it looked as though progress was being made. The talks went through with a strained civility that had been expected – an eternal war does not allow itself to be put on hold so easily. What had not been expected was a supposed cease-fire just within the grasp of the negotiating parties._

Let our families ply their trades in peace, _was the ultimate goal as stated by on-edge voices from both sides. _There must be a way that this can end.

_There was hope, though deeply tentative, that the Law might never have to be put in to practice again. If both families wanted this calm, then surely there had to be a way to attain it. _

_They were so very close._

_As such things often are, it was too good to be true. Such comfort and such advancement could not last, not with decades, if not centuries, of precedent set against them. An airy word was spoken, too lightly and too carelessly, though none present would be able to tell you from which mouth it had come. Spoken it was though, and to put it euphemistically, things grew harried._

_It ended with the Thieves hungry for blood and a Patriarch to seal within the LeBeau family tomb._

_And so today, the rules come in to play. There is no happy ending here, no way work out the originally intended truce, or any way at all to fix this. The war continues. The bodies will fall. There is only the law and what it demands._

_The Patriarch of the Thieves has been slain. _

_The Rippers must pay._


	4. Killing Birds

**TITLE: **Lex Talionis

**SUMMARY: **_But if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise. _Welcome to the Thieves Guild. Enjoy your stay.

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **Passing reference to death.**  
**

**DISCLAIMER: **They're not my toys. Marvel's just good enough not to yell at me for playing with them.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **For those unaware, _pain perdu _– literally 'lost bread' - is the Louisiana version of what you'll probably know as French toast. There's little to no difference in the recipe, but having grown up both in New Orleans and Tante Mattie's kitchen, Remy would likely know it by its French name.

It's also worth mentioning that Mattie referencing classic poetry and reading it to the Guild kids is directly inspired by and drawn from Green Amber's one-shot "The Highwayman".

* * *

**Part Four: Killing Birds**

Remy spends the night in the same room that he grew up in. It's not a pleasant night, nor can he be certain that he even sleeps. All he knows is that he tosses, turns, and spends far too much time looking in to the dark that he swears is looking back. These are, after all, the four cream-coloured walls that formed his sanctuary as a child and his cage as an adolescent. This room and he are too well acquainted for him to be at any sort of ease here.

To pass the time he lays there in the dark, listening to the strange sounds a large building makes when there's hardly anyone in it. He finally hears people making their way in and about the house at what's probably three or four in the morning; he can be no more accurate than this guess since the alarm clock by his bed has been unplugged. The rest of the family, it would seem, has come home after a night's profitable work.

He doesn't go to say hello.

xXx

The next day dawns that special kind of winter-bright, the air stagnant and cool. The promise of clouds hangs in the empty sky alongside an almost oppressive significance that weighs down souls.

It's a good day for a funeral.

Pity then that it will be wasted on a wake.

The sun has risen, though just barely, and Remy's decision to reject last night's dinner is making its ill-advised nature known by the painful rumble of his stomach. Despite everything, food is still a necessity. It's this alone that draws him out of his room. He stalks along the hallway and down the main stairwell, making his way to the kitchen with the intent of getting something to eat and disappearing back in to his room before anyone else wakes up. It being early in the morning after a late night, no-one else will be awake. It's all part of his plan to avoid as much human contact as possible.

The smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla reaches him before he can even see the kitchen door, meaning his attempt to avoid people has been dashed. The disappointment lingers as he continues on his way anyhow. As he comes closer, he hears a slightly off-key singing barely rising above the sound of a sizzling pan. Both the sound and smell are familiar to the point of pain.

Tante Mattie doesn't even look up from the _pain perdu_ she's tending to as he enters the kitchen.

"Mornin' Remy."

He knows his entry was soundless. He also knows better than to assume he can slip past Tante Mattie unnoticed. There's no point to pretending at surprise.

"Morning."

"Your breakfast is jus' gonna be a minute, but there's a cuppa coffee on the counter."

He doesn't question the woman, just picks up the waiting mug and takes a slow sip. It's just how he likes it – strong, sweet, and just shy scalding.

Mattie flips the bread in the pan over, and her eyebrows take a hike for her forehead as she turns towards him.

"Sit down and stay a spell, why doncha? You look like you'll up an' run away if I so much as look at you funny."

He gives her his best forced smile over the rim of his mug. It comes automatically, and however wrong it might be, this gives him a rather warped sense of accomplishment.

"I'm not going anywhere, Mattie."

She finishes his thought for him as she fetches a plate and some syrup, placing the first right near the stove, and the second on the counter nearest Remy.

"Not 'til all this is done, at any rate," she sighs. "And Lord knows what that means anymore, or when it's gonna be."

There's a question in there he's being baited to ask – a _what's that supposed to mean, _probably. He doesn't say a word. Years in this house have taught him that no matter how closely held the secret, it will end up being revealed before the curtain falls. He just has to wait.

In the silence, Mattie checks the breakfast and deems it ready before serving it up.

"S'been a while," she says, sliding the plate across the counter to a waiting knife and fork that's a pace away from where Remy stands. He closes the distance and finds himself pondering the refusal of this food too, whatever his original purpose for coming here was. As good as it smells, and as good as he knows it will taste, accepting it somehow gets twisted in his head as being tantamount to accepting everything the family represents.

Perhaps the connection is not so strange; his memory is speckled with Sunday morning brunches after church, with everyone crammed in to the kitchen together trying to be heard over the din of cooking, chatter, and eating as this very smell filled the room.

Remy's stomach rumbles again, and hunger proves louder than better judgment. He takes a seat and a couple absent bites.

It tastes as delicious as he remembers it being, which bothers him at the deepest sort of level. In even this small action he's made yet another commitment, however tenuous, and knows that with each small concession like this he's walling himself in.

"It has," he finally replies.

"New York treatin' you well?"

The words have the air of polite conversation, things said to keep the quiet at bay. Remy's not so sure that this is the case. He can't help but think that she's searching for a certain answer.

"Well enough."

If Tante Mattie is getting irritated with his moroseness, it doesn't show. She sounds almost sad.

"New York ain't your home, Remy. Never has been, never will be. Everyone seems t'know it but you."

She sighs, wiping her hands on a dishcloth tucked in to her waistband. "Why'd you go back there?"

The real answer is that it's not here, that the family isn't there, and that New York is an easy place to get hidden and stay hidden. That's what happened, after all. He got low and stayed that way for a long time, perhaps even in situations when he shouldn't have. He doesn't much feel like confessing this though. Besides, it's easier to go on the defensive.

"You gonna tell me that I got swamp water in my veins, Mattie? I've heard it before. Don't buy it any more now than I did then," he retorts glibly, wondering if he ought not to have come to the kitchen in the first place. The look he receives in return from Mattie is pointed.

"This ain't about what's in your veins. It's about what's _right._"

"Let me guess. That's me sticking around here and being a good little Guild member, right?"

She is unimpressed by his cheek, or so the folding of her arms over her chest decrees. He gets the feeling that if he were any smaller, she'd have turned him over her knee by now.

"Don't y'dare put words in my mouth, Remy. No-one, 'specially not you, has earned that right."

A sigh comes before she continues, voice softer now.

"Y'went North to escape, Remy. That was running away, not headin' home."

The astuteness of Mattie's words isn't surprising, but it's still more than a little uncomfortable to have the fact of the matter laid bare like that. It's beginning to bother him that everyone here seems to see the truth so clearly.

"Do you blame me?" he asks. It could very well be a real question, not just a rhetorical device. She looks at him, lips pursed.

"Y'had your reasons."

It's a complete sentence, but trails off as though there's more that she'd like to say. Instead, there's only quiet as Mattie takes the pan from the stove to the sink. She begins to wash it in what Remy's pegging as an effort to let the subject die before it gets too close to the real issues, but as she stops mid-scrub it becomes clear that this conversation isn't over yet. There's a moment where she holds the pan suspended over the water before dropping it in and turning to catch Remy's full attention.

"You know that Etienne wasn't your fault."

He sets his coffee mug down, the taste all of a sudden disgusting. He can't even bring himself to tell her just how wrong she is, or how there's more to it than even she knows. A white hot sensation he long ago learned to recognize as guilt seers through him like fire, and it takes a degree of control that he was only vaguely aware he possessed not to leave the room right then and there.

He'd been aware that this was going to come up, but all the knowledge in the world hasn't prepared him for the actuality. His hands, now resting on his thighs, ball in to tight fists as he tries to ward off the power that name and everything that goes with it holds.

Tante Mattie continues, even more gently now, as though she sees the private war being waged before her.

"There was no way you, or anybody else f'that matter, could've seen that coming. Why d'you insist on carryin' that albatross around your neck?"

Remy's fists grow tighter, his fingernails digging in to his palms as childhood memories come flooding back again. Now though, they are of a nighttime ritual - Tante Mattie would read to him and his cousins from a big book of poetry that smelt like must and age before tucking them all in to bed, insisting that they would appreciate it when they were older. Old lines return to mind, and they, like everything and everyone else here, cut too keenly.

_And I had done an hellish thing, and it would work 'em woe…_

The strength to reply is finally found. It is weak, and it is hardly more than a whisper, but it comes out.

"'Cause I shot the damn bird, Mattie. Or as good as."

She doesn't reply, and he claims this as a small victory. The disappointment in her face, on the other hand, is ignored. He refuses to let this get to him. He's got enough to deal with on his own without Tante Mattie's regret added to the mix. She regards him dolefully before going back to washing the pan.

"Eat up, Remy. No-one goes hungry. Not today."

Remy looks to the half-eaten breakfast before him, realizing that at some point in this conversation, the sweet and familiar smell of the cinnamon had turned a nauseating saccharine.

"I'm full up."

He knows that she knows he's lying. He walks away regardless, the action futile. He's already in far too deep. It's been too late for an escape since he walked through the door.

* * *

**A Footnote: On Albatrosses **(Or, if you prefer: _Remy's guilt complex. Percy shows you it._)

Tante Mattie and Remy's exchange about Albatrosses around necks, as well as the quote Remy remembers in this chapter, might be a little confusing to some of you. Allow me to clarify.

What's being quoted and referenced in this chapter is the poem "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Coleridge. In this work, an albatross flies alongside the ship that the titular Mariner sails on. The Mariner ends up shooting the albatross, which leads to the ship's journey being thrown in to chaos – the Albatross had brought them good winds, and in killing the bird, the Mariner is held responsible for leaving the ship stranded and motionless on the ocean. The crew of the ship then forces the Mariner to wear the slain bird tied around his neck as a token of penance.

As a result of this poem, the term has become an idiom. When you say that someone has an albatross around their neck, you mean that something is holding them back from success or that they're shouldering a great amount of guilt. In Remy's case, both meanings are appropriate.


	5. No Heaven

**TITLE: **Lex Talionis

**SUMMARY: **_But if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise. _Welcome to the Thieves Guild. Enjoy your stay_._

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **Alcohol, language, references to violence, and generally Bad Ideas.

**DISCLAIMER: **They're not my toys. Marvel's just good enough not to yell at me for playing with them.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **It's been a while, but 'Lex' is back.

For those who it will matter to, a tip of the hat is made to "The Crow" in this chapter; I don't own that either.

* * *

**Part Five: No Heaven**

Remy decides as he walks out of the kitchen and back through the house that he will not be showing up at the wake. It's juvenile, yes, but there's little that he wants less than to have to stand there with Henri and make nice with all the well-wishers. He'll skip out, get reamed out, and will fail to care since Jean-Luc never did either.

He's got himself a better plan anyhow.

There's a bottle of bourbon in the house. Not the stuff that's kept in the liquor cabinet, mind you. The bottle Remy's thinking of is the one hidden in the bottom drawer of the desk in Jean-Luc's office. Henri's office now, he supposes, entering the room and opening the drawer he isn't supposed to know about. Not that it makes a difference.

There are no locks on the office door, and none on the desk drawer. There isn't a _need_ for locks. Anyone in the house knows better than to set foot in that room without being invited, and anyone in the house knows better than to even think about touching the desk.

Yet here Remy stands, disrespecting not only this sacred space but the recently dead. Neither is bothering him much.

Opening the drawer, he digs behind a stack of file folders and finds what he's looking for: a brown paper bag that while otherwise innocuous, hides just what he's looking for.

He draws a decently sized, almost half-empty bottle out, and watches the way the liquid inside it sloshes against its glass prison. This is the good stuff – Jean-Luc's private stash.

According to the admittedly skewed logic that he's been following as of late, his 'father' owes him at least this much. It won't pay for the years where he was used like one of Jean-Luc's tools or for being pulled back into this world, but Remy knows he's going to need a drink at some point today. If he can get one while sticking it to Jean-Luc at the same time, why the hell not? He slides the bottle back in the bag and leaves the office with no attempt to cover up this theft other than to close the drawer once more. Let Henri find out and try to do something about it.

Remy moves through the back ways of the house to his room to grab his coat, and is out the window and off the roof before he can be seen, caught, and dragged back inside.

He walks until he reaches a main road. The bottle rests comfortably in one of his coat's pockets, unseen and waiting. A few minutes more of walking, and he finds his mark.

Two girls, he notes while waving them down. Tourists, judging by the car's license plate.

Perfect.

They pull over and the passenger rolls down her window.

"You alright?" she asks.

"I jus' might be now," he says, shifting into character with a practiced smile. He's thickened his accent purposely, and watches them become putty in his hands with every word. "You lovely ladies wouldn' happen t'be headin' into the city now, would'y?"

xXx

The girls – blandly pretty, distracted by his accent and the excitement of picking up a stranger off the side of the road – drop him off in the Quarter somewhere near Jackson Square. He leaves them with a false name, a false cell number, a false wink, and a false request that they give him a call if they want someone to show them around.

Remy disappears as soon as their car is out of sight, making his way to Decatur Street.

It's while passing a couple restaurants he remembers that a some coffee, a some _pain perdu_ and hardly any of the spaghetti from last night has been the sum total of what he's eaten since he's arrived in New Orleans, but he doesn't grab anything. It's all part of the plan.

The streets are still familiar, and though much has changed, he can still move through the city with confidence. He slips down the same alleys where he'd figured out how to disappear, runs along the rooftops that had taught him balance, and even takes a casual walk down Bourbon Street, where he'd learned to pick a pocket and to blend into a crowd. He relieves a couple marks of their wallets, finding creative ways to get them right back where they'd come from without anyone the wiser. It's frustratingly easy.

The startling conclusion he comes to as the day goes by – his big epiphany – isn't really all that dramatic.

It's not the house that's home. It's New Orleans herself that is. She was the one who raised him, after all. Remy had been taught and hardened by her streets long before Jean-Luc came around to bend her handiwork to his own purposes. The Guild had only sharpened and directed what was already there. Even if Jean-Luc had plucked Remy up from obscurity, it was New Orleans that had kept one small gutter rat alive and made him into a survivor.

There is no other 'home'.

He's always known, and Tante Mattie had hinted as much that morning. She doesn't know one thing that Remy knows though: he can't stay, not while the family is still here. He also knows that he's never going to be able to truly leave. It's not so much that there's swamp water in his veins like he'd said to Tante Mattie as it is a case of him being one drop of water in that swamp; he's too much a part of New Orleans to extricate himself fully from her arms.

Remy reminds himself that it's growing late and that he needs to get a move on. There's one final stop on his tour of the city today, and it's the most important one. It also happens to be the scene of this play that he dreads the most.

Night is just beginning to fall as he approaches the locked front gate of Lafayette no. 1, and he vaults over the small section of wrought iron easily. The powers that be close up the cemeteries early now since the thugs and drug dealers have marked them as their territory.

Funny how things change, Remy reflects as he lands without a sound. Back when he was a kid, a rule of thumb had been if you needed a good place to hide, the cemeteries were the safest place to be since everybody there was already dead.

Remy doesn't fear the small fish that think they own the cities of the dead now. It's plain fact that if anything, they should fear him. He can already spot and hear at least a couple already, which has him considering going and kicking the shit out of them simply because he can. He decides against it and fades into the shadows. There are more important things he needs to see to.

Remy winds his way through the tombs expertly, knowing exactly where he's going even though it's been a while since his last visit. Despite the speed at which he moves, his feet are leaden as he approaches one tomb in particular.

He runs his hand over one specific marker before reading its inscription:

_Etienne Marceaux_

_Requiescat In Pace_

Remy ignores the dates just below because he doesn't need to be reminded. He splays his hand over Etienne's name, taking in the feel of the letters as they press into his palm. The moment is something like a prayer, he thinks, but he hasn't prayed in a long time and can hardly remember what it ought to feel like.

Grabbing for the tomb's roof now, Remy swings himself atop it. He takes a seat, legs hanging over the side and kicking against it every so often as he takes out his stolen bottle and begins to enjoy it. He intentionally drinks too much too quickly on his essentially empty stomach, forcing the liquor to go straight to his head. It's his personal recipe for drunkenness tonight and a hangover tomorrow.

"Hey Etienne," he eventually whispers.

Unable to bring himself to say anything further, he sits there as the dark becomes total and the bottle in his hands grows more and more empty.

He tries to get words out.

"I'm - "

He can't. The apology for what he's done simply won't allow itself to be said, even while he's drunk and stupid. Even through the alcohol, he knows why. Admission of guilt comes easy – that's just self-flagellation, an act he's raised to a high art form. An apology means letting it go, the chance to move on, and he's just too much of a masochist to do that.

How screwed up is it that he needs the wounds just as much as he needs to heal? How much worse that he can't deal with either the injury or the recovery?

"Drink up, Et," he murmurs, pouring a small measure of the bourbon over the tomb since it's all he can really think of to do. "You'll need it. Jean-Luc's gonna be along real soon."

_Purify the __altar__ by making atonement for it, and __anoint__ it to consecrate it. (Exodus 29:36)_


	6. Wretch Like Me

**TITLE: **Lex Talionis

**SUMMARY: **_But if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise. _Welcome to the Thieves Guild. Enjoy your stay_._

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **A funeral and some not-so-nice thoughts about people, death, and family.

**DISCLAIMER: **They're not my toys. Marvel's just good enough not to yell at me for playing with them.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **This chapter details the funeral of Jean-Luc LeBeau, who receives a traditional New Orleans jazz funeral. Any inaccuracies are my own, not those of the folk or resources I have learned from, and those who know better are welcome to step in and offer correction.

* * *

**Part Six: Wretch Like Me**

"Wakey, wakey," comes a voice, drawing Remy out of a sleep filled with dreams that he's thankful to forget. It's as he sits up that he realizes his head is killing him, which he supposes was kind of the point of last night. A pair of hands, presumably belonging to the voice, puts a glass of water and a couple Asprin into Remy's.

He throws back the pills and drinks the water in a couple deep swallows, then looks up at whoever's playing his guardian angel.

"Emil," he croaks out, putting the empty glass on the bedside table. Emil, dressed all in sober black, cracks a smile.

"And the man lives."

"That almost sounds like relief."

"Almost. Feeling okay? You were pretty far gone last night when you got back from wherever you were. Just came back and crashed."

"I'll survive," Remy replies dryly.

"Not without breakfast. Or so Tante Mattie says anyhow."

Producing a fork and a plate of still hot eggs and some buttered toast, Emil all but drops them into Remy's lap. "Eat up, 'cuz."

This time, Remy doesn't bother to think about the deeper ramifications of simple actions like eating. He just downs the eggs. Emil, in the meantime, leaves the room. Munching the toast, Remy swings himself out of bed to find himself dressed in last night's clothes, and wanders over to the window to look at the large collective of anonymous cars parked outside.

The sound of the door opening heralds Emil's return. Remy sighs, casting one more glance at the vehicles.

"Whole clan's come out, huh?"

"Seeing as it's the funeral today, that would be a yeah." Emil lifts up his arms to draw attention to the small pile of black clothes draped over them. "We're about the same size, so my stuff here should fit you."

Emil then hangs a pair of slacks, a button-up dress shirt, and a tie over the bed frame.

"Get changed, get another glass of water, swig some mouthwash, and get your ass down to the sitting room. There's fresh coffee in the kitchen, so grab a cup on your way. You've got a reaming out from Mercy and Tante Mattie on the schedule this morning before the funeral. Theo's penciled in for this afternoon, but I think he just wants to kick your ass. Of course, that's nothing new. Day ending in 'y' and all that. The family's convening tonight for a war council – "

"Why the hell you looking out for me like this, Lapin?"

The question freezes Emil, which is out of character for the man who can't seem to keep still. Remy continues. "You're sticking your neck out for me, and I sure as hell ain't given you a reason to. So why?"

Emil recovers after a moment presumably taken for thought, and picks a piece of lint off the one piece of clothing left in his hands – a tailored blazer that matches the slacks. His answer is given while placing it neatly on top of the rest of the clothing.

"'Cause I remember this uppity teenage brat who was the biggest pain in the ass I'd ever met, but always managed to come through in the clutch. I'm hoping he's still hanging around somewhere."

"You're hoping for a lot."

The weakened smile that Emil offers as he heads for the door verges on sardonic but takes a left turn for the pathetic at the last minute.

"What can I say? Go big or go home."

xXx

Washed up, dressed, fed properly for the first time in a couple days and a cup of chicory spiked coffee in hand, Remy heads through the halls for the sitting room. He passes numerous family members who ignore him to the point of it being conspicuous. That's okay though. Remy's ignoring them too.

There are only three people in the sitting room when he gets there, and they're talking quietly amongst themselves: Tante Mattie, Mercy, and Henri.

"Morning," Remy says, and they look up at him. Disappointment is lining their faces, and he takes the pause given by a sip of his coffee to gauge what kind of impact he should brace for only to find the status quo still in place. Henri's face is still all but blank. Tante Mattie still looks sad. Mercy, arms crossed protectively, is still caustic.

"It was real nice seeing you at the wake Remy. Thanks for coming out."

He shrugs.

"Your own daddy's-" Tante Mattie begins.

"Mind if we skip this part?" he interrupts. "You can cut straight to how upset you are and how disrespectful I was, just don't do the whole 'daddy' thing."

She isn't shell-shocked by this, and doesn't even need a beat to react.

"I don' even think I need to bother then, seeing as y'just covered it all yourself. Would you even listen or care if I did talk?"

He doesn't need a beat either.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Mattie."

"At least you're dressed and ready," Mercy says, still bitter as she glances at a clock on the wall. "We should get going."

Remy makes a non-committal noise and drains his coffee, scalding his tongue in the process.

Henri doesn't say anything at all, and as the family piles into the waiting vehicles to head off for the funeral Remy decides that's the one reaction that nearly makes him feel sorry.

xXx

The funeral itself takes place in the church that the LeBeau family has gone to as far back as anyone can remember. Remy, sitting in the front pew with the rest of the direct family, inhales deeply and takes in the familiar scent of burning incense. It's the Sunday mornings of his childhood all over again right down to the same priest, Father Laurent, heading the proceedings.

Remy barely listens, already familiar with the formulaic words of the liturgy; he's been to enough funerals to know it by heart. He stands, sits, and kneels at all the right times. He knows when to cross himself, and parrots back the right responses with an almost mechanical automaticity.

"_Requiem æternam dōnā eīs, Domine: et lūx perpetua lūceat eīs," _Father Laurent finally finishes.

_Rest eternal grant unto them, O Lord, _Remy translates from the Latin,_ and let light perpetual shine upon them._

He fights the urge to snort. Jean-Luc was never a good man. He was an unrepentant criminal despite how tightly he had clung to his moral code, which was warped to say the least. He was at the very best an asshole who thought of himself as benevolent. He hardly seems the sort to deserve this rest and light that the priest has requested on his behalf.

_And you think you are? _Remy asks himself. His answer comes right on the heels of the question.

_I __**know**__ I'm not. That's the difference._

And yet the chances are good that when he does shuffle off this mortal coil, the same undeserved words requesting mercy at the Last Judgement will be said for him.

The end of the service comes as a relief, since he's now one step closer to the end of this whole pantomime. Remy, Henri, Emil, Theoren, and a couple other cousins Remy barely remembers rise and surround the coffin. They're Jean-Luc's closest living relatives, seeing as the man's own siblings are long since dead, and it falls to the six of them to carry the casket.

The six men then take up Jean-Luc's final bed. Swing, swing, swing, as they walk out of the church past the sea of folks in black. Swing, swing, swing, as the band that's been waiting outside starts to play. Back and forth, back and forth as they set the coffin in an open, horse-drawn carriage.

The brass is slow and mournful as they follow the carriage to the cemetery. There is even a point where Remy hears Henri, standing in front of him, singing along with the familiar music. It's a rendition of "Amazing Grace".

Remy's jaw stays clamped shut.

He can't hear this grace being sung about. He hears air forced through cold metal instruments and footsteps along the street serving as the erratic heartbeat of the crowd. There's no sweetness there. No salvation, no rescue, and no banishment of blindness like the song promises.

Just jarring noise.

xXx

The procession winds its way into Lafayette no. 1, moving through the gates and past the magnolia trees that stand sentinel around it. They travel through the aisles upon aisles of tombs.

Crosses, angels, and engraved faces in various degrees of dilapidation look down on the crowd as they work their way along a predetermined route through cemetery's numerous passageways. A right turn off the main thoroughfare here, a left turn there, and one more right brings them to where the family crypt stands, waiting.

Letters are cut deep into stone above all the markers. Though they've been worn away by weather and time, leaving them near invisible at night, they are still legible in daylight.

_The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?_

_The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?_

Remy snorts quietly as he reads. While the older generations of Thieves might have believed each and every one of those words, the family has slowly but surely lost that unflinching faith their progenitors might have had.

The confidence expressed there though, the belief that nothing and no-one that can stand in their way? God might not have anything to do with that assurance anymore, but fearlessness has never stopped defining Thieves. Even if Remy hasn't been a True Believer in a long time there are lessons you never do forget. Certain things get raised in to you, taught right in to your bones. He can't deny what's simple, although painful, truth.

Fearlessness is just a stone's throw from stupidity though. God knows he's lived and learned that as well.

Remy goes on to make a point of not looking at Etienne's marker, though notes a slight stain against the white stone that's got to be the bourbon he poured out on it last night. Emil, who's right next to the tomb, has noticed it too. He touches it lightly before glancing over his shoulder at Remy, who gives him nothing more than a cool glare.

Everyone's attention is slowly shifting towards the tomb. It hasn't been enough time for the last body interred to have decomposed fully – the result of so many fallen so quickly – so out of respect for the delicate sensibilities of the family (who would want to open a tomb to lay one family member to rest only to see the remains of another?) the coffin and body will be left to be sealed into the tomb by those who maintain the cemetery as best they can.

Remy can't help but find the humour in this. As if anyone present hasn't seen worse than what lies inside there.

He looks towards Henri, seeking a distraction there, and sees the man who had been wilting this morning forcing steel through his spine now. Whether a conscious mimicry or not, he almost looks like Jean-Luc. He almost looks like a man ready to be the Patriarch.

The band breaks out into something bright and joyful: "When The Saints Go Marching In". Since the deceased has been taken care of and all is in order now, it's time for the living to celebrate.

Remy watches people behind him begin to dance, umbrellas spinning with the music and handkerchiefs waving in the air. Jamming his hands in his blazer's pockets, he walks along with the rest of the family. Surrounded by all this tradition, all the pomp of a jazz funeral, he can only think of how tonight, a good deal of these same people now honoring Jean-Luc's life will be assembling at the LeBeau mansion to discuss how best to bring about Marius Boudreaux's death.


	7. Sometimes You're Born With It

**TITLE: **Lex Talionis

**SUMMARY: **_But if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise. _Welcome to the Thieves Guild. Enjoy your stay.

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **Language, discussion of violence.

**DISCLAIMER: **They're not my toys. Marvel's just good enough not to yell at me for playing with them.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **And with this chapter, we're one step closer to the end. Time for some politics and more unpleasant memories.

* * *

**Part Seven: Sometimes You're Born With It**

It's that night that the family gathers in the parlor.

Every member of the New Orleans Thieves Guild is there by requirement, and that includes Remy. He takes a place at the back of the room, leaning against the wall as nonchalantly as he can, observing the goings on since there's not much else to do. Everyone's still in their funeral clothes, the sea of black seated and engaged in muted conversations that he can only catch snatches of. It's tense talk. A lot of questions are being asked. The answers are going to come, but they'll come the 'right' way. This is a council, after all, rife with protocol and tradition.

Henri finally stands up, and the room falls into an uneasy quiet. The new Patriarch is about to speak.

"We all know what's happened," Henri says, "and we all know what needs to be done."

This much is obvious. Marius Boudreaux has to die.

Remy tunes all the speeches made and ideas proposed – he distantly registers that Theo is especially vocal – all mediated by his brother.

He wonders if 'brother' is still the right word now that Henri's in charge of this screwed up operation. He wonders if it ever was.

He cuts off this train of thought before it can make it any further along the railway tracks of his mind. Regardless of how good he is at beating himself up over nearly anything, he'll save this one for a more opportune moment. When that is he has no clue, but this sure as hell isn't the time or place. No-one here deserves the privilege (if it can be called that) of seeing anything of his current vulnerability. Not that they can see what's going on in his head, but any sign of weakness at all is as good as blood in the water in this crowd. He pretends that Mattie, Henri, Mercy, and Emil haven't already seen far too much of that for him to be comfortable.

Maintaining his neutral expression, Remy starts paying attention. Maybe he'll actually care about something being said.

It's not likely, obviously, but at least possible. At the very least it'll distract him, or maybe even give him something new to be bitter about.

"This's all well and good, but no-one's answered the big question yet," someone asks. "Who are we sending to kill Marius?"

Remy considers stepping up, which surprises him.

There is a certain logic to it though: being a cause of death sounds rather appealing right now, if only because it's an outlet for this nervous energy building up in him. Plus, the sooner Marius is offed, the sooner he can give this place the finger and head back to New York. At least there the only one reminding him of his sins is him.

"I'll do it."

The words cut sharply through the room and manage to leave a heavy silence in their wake. Everyone turns to look at him, the reactions varied, but all running along the same general lines. There's astonishment, doubt, anger, confusion, and quiet murmurs of disbelief Remy had expected when he spoke up.

"You'll kill Marius?" Theo asks, incredulous.

Remy had figured from the moment he chose to volunteer himself that it would be Theo, if anyone, who'd directly challenge him. He hardly blames Theo. The guy's had a justifiable vendetta against him ever since…

He can't even bring himself to think the words. There's only the memory of dragging a small body ashore and an abject sense of horror that manages to seep through the cracks. He draws on words to form a shield around himself.

"You saying I can't? 'Cause if you're suggesting I'm not capable-"

Theo rises from his seat and turns to face Remy head on. The man's face is venomous, and his words even more so.

"No. No, I'm suggesting that you don't have the right to even put yourself forward. You're not a true Thief."

Still relaxed against the wall, Remy matches Theo's acid tone while keeping his face placid.

"I passed my Tilling. As far as anyone here is concerned, I'm as much a Thief as you."

"You left. That's voluntary exile."

The man has a point that Remy chooses to ignore.

"And your Patriarch," Remy indicates Henri with a loose wave of his hand, "called me back. That's a welcome mat, last I checked."

Remy's disgusted with each word he speaks. He's talking like he still belongs, fighting for his supposedly rightful place amongst the Thieves. It's sick. The family was exactly what he's fought so hard to escape, and here he is asserting himself as a part of it.

Sick. Just sick.

"Why do you want to do it? Why do you think you even _can_?"

"Because I got into the Ripper's place and got Jean-Luc out when none of you could."

He leaves out the part about how this wouldn't have been the case had he not had that girl's help in doing so. If Jean-Luc had told them about her, Remy will be called on it and can go hide in his room until this shit is over and done with. If Jean-Luc hadn't, then Remy can take a literal stab at Marius and either succeed or end up with a COD of suicide-by-Ripper. It should be unnerving how alright he is with either of these options.

Starting to go somewhat red in the face, Theo hisses.

"If you think anyone in this room is gonna stand for you -"

"For the love of God, both of you, shut _up_!" Henri shouts, showing the most emotion Remy's seen out of him since arriving. "We do this the right way."

This seems to shock everyone in the room. If there is a quiet deeper than a complete hush, it rests over the room now.

"Who'll stand for Remy?" Henri asks, sounding weary as he begins the old, patterned words that make up this particular part of a War Council.

No-one makes a move. Theo starts to look smug, but doesn't get the chance to gloat or taunt.

"What the hell," Emil says, rising from his chair and continuing the formal litany. "I will stand for Remy."

Henri nods.

"Emil Lapin stands for Remy LeBeau."

Theo sinks down into his chair with a glower. The Patriarch is at work, and he cannot interrupt now.

Remy stands up straight and steps away from the wall.

_Here we go, _he thinks to himself.

"Do you understand what is asked of you, Remy LeBeau?"

"I am to wreak vengeance," he replies, the words coming far too easily and making him disgustingly nauseous. "I am to fulfill the call of the Law and spill blood for the one taken from us. Marius Boudreaux's life for Jean-Luc LeBeau's."

"Remy LeBeau has spoken. As Patriarch, I affirm that he knows what is required of him. He will be our instrument of the Law. I have spoken, and it is done."

"It is done," all murmur in response, and Remy parallels it to the church services he'd attended as a child and the one this morning. Calls and responses, the recitation of formal patterns and refrains like actors delivering well-rehearsed lines. The whole thing fits Remy like too-tight shirt and he is thankful as everyone begins to file out with the Council now finished.

Everyone's off to their own homes or their own rooms in the house now. If Remy waits a few minutes here in the parlor, he can slip through the halls without running in to anyone. Looking up from the floor that he's been investigating intently since Theo brushed by him without a word, he sees that he's not alone. Emil's there, sitting in his chair but having swiveled around to rest his crossed arms on its back. He is watching Remy all too closely.

"You really think you can do this, huh?" he asks, and it could pass for either an observation or a question.

"If you're looking for a thanks," Remy counters.

"I'm not getting one. I know." Emil's mouth twitches before breaking in to that smile that just can't seem to leave his face alone. "Just don't fuck this up, yeah?"


End file.
